


Hold Me Tight

by Burning_Up_A_Sun



Series: Adult Education [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, JAMMS-verse, M/M, Parent!lock, Porn, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 17:12:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14981774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/pseuds/Burning_Up_A_Sun
Summary: When you've raised triplets for 15 years, parents don't get a lot of time to themselves. So when John and Sherlock have four hours to themselves, they make good use of their time.The prompt was: Tell me everything.





	Hold Me Tight

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the 24 hour [Come At Once Porn Fest](https://come-at-once.dreamwidth.org/). It was written in 12 hours and has been beta'd by the incomparable GeronimoAndBeMAGnificent and Crowgirl. they are brilliant and all remaining mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Although it is part of my JAAMs-Verse, it can stand alone as long as you know that John met Sherlock when they taught at the same school in Florida, and eventually they married and had triplets: William (Wills, who is at Harvard), Edward (Teddy, who goes to a hockey boarding school), and Beatrix (Bea. who attends the local HS).

“They’re gone,” John said, stepping back into the house and shutting the front door. “You can stop looking threatening now.”

Sherlock unfolded himself from the recliner and shook the kinks out of his arms and legs. “Do you think he was capable of understanding?”

“I think Bea’s date knew exactly what you were doing,” John said, sliding Sherlock’s suit jacket from his shoulders and tossing it over the sofa. “Stay here.”

Sherlock puffed up, clearly pleased that his plan had succeeded. “Beatrix is 15, which as I have already established is far too young to—”

“And she knew what you were doing, too. You’re going to get the cold shoulder for that. No pun intended.” He massaged Sherlock’s shoulders, kneading the muscles that had knotted from Sherlock sitting rigidly upright with his arms crossed over his chest.

“It is imperative that her gentleman callers—” Sherlock wrinkled his nose as if just the thought of the phrase _gentleman callers_ were repulsive “—understand that she is a lady, a delicate flower, and must be treated as such.”

John snorted a _ha!_ “Your delicate flower spiked the shortstop when she slid into second yesterday. And I’m pretty sure the ‘Take that, you motherfucking asshole’ I heard was from the only female voice on the field.”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder, grinning at John. “That was an incredible slide, wasn’t it? And her walk-off grand slam. She showed every man who said she should not play on the high school baseball team.”

“What time did you tell Bea curfew was?” John nudged Sherlock to turn around. Sherlock’s grin sculpted his face, highlighting his cheekbones and the hint of a dimple. He was just as beautiful as when they’d met almost 20 years before. Yeah, his dark curls were streaked with grey, and the odd times he went without shaving, Sherlock’s beard was more salt than pepper. But he was still the man John had fallen in love with and married; he was passionate about what and whom he loved, remained intense and unchanged by the languid Florida lifestyle.

 _His suit, for example,_ John thought as he worked the silk tie in reverse until he could slide it out from the under the buttoned collar. _Who wears a suit in Florida?_

“I told Justin—”

“Jacob.”

“Whatever.” Sherlock waved away John’s correction as irrelevant. “I made it clear that if she were not home by 11—”

John covered Sherlock’s mouth with his palm. “We have four hours til she comes back?”

Sherlock nodded, and his eyes widened as he understood. A few additional wrinkles at the corners, but still the same blue of the Caribbean waters. “We have an empty house,” Sherlock said as he pulled John’s hand away and kissed his palm.

John mmm-hmm’d in agreement and led Sherlock to the black and white brocade couch, rarely used like the formal living room itself. Sherlock sat primly in the center of the couch, his hands folded in his lap. “Whatever shall we do all alone for four hours?”

John shoved the coffee table out of the way, careful not to spill his cup of water onto the computer. With that out of the way, John kneeled over Sherlock’s lap, his knees bracketing Sherlock’s thighs. “I’m pretty sure,” John said into Sherlock’s neck, “that I have an idea.” He dragged his lips across Sherlock’s jaw and stopped where it met his ear. “Love your neck. Love that when I kiss you like this, I get razor burn and everyone knows what we’ve been doing.” He nipped just beneath Sherlock’s earlobe, starting a hickey he wouldn't finish.

“Tell me everything,” Sherlock whispered into the silent house. He dropped his head to the back of the couch so John could more easily access his neck.

John dragged his lips back across Sherlock’s jaw, and then when he sat upright, he kissed Sherlock lightly on the lips. “Love your clothes,” he said, pressing his palms against Sherlock’s chest before pushing each button on the cotton shirt through its small opening in the placket. “Mostly, I love taking them off you.” He stripped the unbuttoned shirt off Sherlock, not caring that it would wind up wedged into the couch cushions.

Sherlock’s mouth hung open as John kissed his bare shoulders and the tiny dips in his clavicle. “Come here,” Sherlock said, pulling John back up. He kissed John hard and intense, rushing like they only had a moment to steal.

“We have hours,” John said, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s. “We don’t have to rush.”

With his fingertip, he traced the bow of Sherlock’s lips. “These lips. They’re beautiful. Especially when they’re sucking me off.” When John pressed his finger to Sherlock’s lips, Sherlock opened his mouth, teased the tip with his tongue before taking John’s finger into his mouth. Sherlock swirled his tongue around the tip, ran it up and back down the length of John’s finger, and John’s brain blanked, hissed with white noise. 

John shifted, and with a grin, he grinded against Sherlock’s cock. “Again. Do that again,” Sherlock begged, grabbing John’s hips to hold him in place. “Please.”  
“Dammit, I can’t. I have to change positions,” John groaned. “My fucking knees ache like this.”

Sherlock guided John down to the couch where the two barely fit. “I feel like a bloody teenager,” John said, wobbling on his side as he tried not to fall off.

“Please, John. Don’t say _teenager._ I don’t even want to think of our kids—” Sherlock laughed as he covered his face with his hands. “If I start thinking of them, I won’t be able to continue.”

“Oh God, no,” John laughed with Sherlock, shook his head to clear away that thought. “Let me see if I can help.”

Because they lay face to face, it was easier for John to touch the planes and angles of Sherlock’s body as they kissed. John drew beautiful noises from him as he caressed his chest, brushed his nails down Sherlock's back, tucked his fingertips into the trouser waistband. They were suggestions of what he could do and promises of what he would do. John curled his fingers over the thick bulge in Sherlock’s trousers.

“I love your cock,” John said, kissing Sherlock deeply. “Have I already said that? It’s perfect.” He slowed himself down, enjoyed the slide of their lips, the lingering woodsy scent of Sherlock’s cologne. The rain tapping against the sky lights above them felt like punctuation to their movements.

“I almost didn’t move to Florida 20 years ago,” John said between kisses, his hand slowly stroking Sherlock through his trousers. With each heavy breath and deep moan he pulled from Sherlock, his own desire curled hotter and more intense.

“That would have been unacceptable,” Sherlock said, stripping off John’s t-shirt and dropping it to the carpet. Sherlock flicked his tongue over John’s nipple and grinned wickedly when John moaned. “What is also unacceptable is how many clothes you are wearing.” He rolled John’s nipple between his fingers pinching just to the right amount of pain, and John arched into Sherlock's touch.

John whined when Sherlock moved his hand away. “You, too. God, get these off.” John tugged at Sherlock's trousers, too tightly tailored to his slender body to accommodate John’s hand.

They rushed to their feet and shucked their trousers and pants without elegance, dropping them to the floor in a pile. John grabbed Sherlock to him, pressed his cock against Sherlock’s thigh. “We can do this, or—” He gently pushed, and Sherlock edged back until he was sitting on the couch.

John nudged Sherlock to open his legs wider and knelt on the floor between them. Sherlock reached out, tapped the couch for a throw pillow. He offered it to John who gratefully accepted it to kneel on instead of the unforgiving carpet.

Sherlock’s cock laid heavy against his thigh; John wrapped his fingers around it and leaned closer, before dragging his tongue over the slit. He loved sucking Sherlock’s dick, loved the way his words devolved until they were nothing but simple sounds.

He held Sherlock with one hand, and with the other, guided Sherlock’s hand into his hair. John started slowly, sucking the ruddy head and popping back off, over and over until Sherlock grabbed John’s hair and held him in place. John slid down on the cock, took as much as he could until it bumped his soft palate. Past the point of slow and teasing, John sucked his cheeks in and worked it, used everything he knew to drive Sherlock to the edge.

He pulled off long enough to wet his palm, and as he sucked Sherlock off, he fucked his own fist, trying to keep the same rhythm until he felt Sherlock tense and spill into his mouth. John swallowed what he could, stopped jacking off long enough to wipe his mouth and use Sherlock’s come as lube.

John tried to delay his orgasm, to draw this moment out, but when Sherlock caressed John’s cheek, held his hand in place, John felt swamped by his emotions: need and want and love. His hand stilled as he came, and he had a fleeting thought that he’d probably just come on Sherlock’s trousers which were under the pillow.

John was hot and sweaty, still kneeling in front of Sherlock. He rested his head on Sherlock’s thigh as he caught his breath; Sherlock brushed his fingers through John’s hair, and John hummed in pleasure.

“God, you’re brilliant,” Sherlock said, his voice weak. “I should allow you to do all of the thinking.”

John sighed and nodded. “Not bad for a 59 year old man,” he said and waited for Sherlock’s biting response.

“Not bad at all,” was all Sherlock said.

A _boop-boop-boop_ rang from the computer.

“Sherlock, is that—”

“Fuck!” Sherlock stood abruptly, knocking John over. “It’s the boys on Skype. They said they’d call Tuesday night.”

The computer continued to boop while they scrambled for their clothes. John threw on his t-shirt and answered the Skype call.

“Hey y’all,” Wills said, pushing his glasses up to get a better look at his fathers.

“I can’t talk long,” Teddy said, his voice muffled as he pulled his hockey jersey on as he spoke. “We have practice in like, two minutes and then I have study group.” When Teddy’s head popped on the screen again, he squinted and said, “You okay, Pop? Your lips are all red and swollen. You have a cold?”

John shook his head and changed the subject. “How’s Harvard, Wills? You holding up ok?”

“Yeah, they think because I’m only 15, I can’t do what they can. It always confuses them when I get better grades!” Will laughed and pushed one of his auburn curls out of his eyes.

Sherlock appeared behind John; he wore a new shirt—a polo shirt instead of his button down. “Hello, boys. You’re looking well.”

“Dad, that’s Pop’s shirt. Why are you wearing—”

Sherlock cut Teddy off. “How is Shattuck-St. Mary’s team doing?”

Both Teddy and Wills rolled their eyes. “Y’all are horrible liars,” Wills said with a laugh. “If you were busy, you didn’t have to answer the call.”

“We weren’t—”

“What do you—”

“Jesus, it’s so clear y’all were banging,” Teddy said. “Your mouth and you—” he pointed at Sherlock. “Dad, I don’t think in my entire life you’ve ever worn a shirt that casual. Or that big on you.” Teddy raised an eyebrow as he smirked.

John’s face was flushed with embarrassment. “This is your fault,” he growled at Sherlock. “You had to make geniuses.”

“We’re gonna go and let y’all get back to acting like teenagers.” The two brothers laughed as they ended the call.

“God, that was mortifying,” John said, his head in his hands.

Sherlock stood and pulled John up. They were still naked from the waist down, and Sherlock gave John the once over. “The boys said we were acting like teenagers.” Sherlock pulled John close and dropped his hands to John’s ass. He squeezed and said, “We still have 3 and half hours. I think I could act like a teenager again, if you like.” He waggled his eyebrows and attempted to leer.

John bit back his smile and said, “Yeah. I think I would like that.”

He watched Sherlock strut bare-assed to their bedroom, and before he followed, John closed the computer. 

Just in case.

**Author's Note:**

> If you would boost this or rec it, I would sincerely appreciate it!
> 
> The title comes from the Fallout Boy song, Hold Me Tight (Or don't)


End file.
